Blame The Dead

The Triumph hesitated by the forecourt to my building, decided there wasn't room, and crawled along a bit farther.

I said, 'They'd never have got Mockby and they'd always have taken a plea on unlawful wounding. I just cooled things down and speeded them up. And anyway, my gun was licenced.'

Two large men in short, dark car coats climbed out of the Triumph and moved slowly but purposefully towards the block.

Jack said heavily, 'Your gun was licenced. Jesus, you'd better think of something more interesting than that. You remember I said when we wanted you, you'd hear sirens? You can hear sirens, buster.'

'Thanks, Jack.' I slammed the phone down and ran.

The bastard: trying to pin me down on the end of the phone like that. Or maybe he'd been warning me – if I was bright enough to take a hint. He might feel he owed me that much.

I yanked open my front door, reached the lift, and pressed the button. As I ran back I could hear it start whining upwards, and that might give me an extra minute. Whatever sort of cops they were, they'd be the sort whose feet prefer riding lifts to climbing stairs.

Back inside my own door, I threw an unopened laundry parcel into the Bergen suitcase, added the log, the derringer and clip, my wallet and passport, thanked God I'd put on real shoes and not slippers, remembered the pigskin hip flask, then grabbed up a sports jacket and my sheepskin and started travelling.

The lift was still whining back down, so I tiptoed down the first flight of stairs – noise carried in that stairwell – then heard it open, shut, and start back up. Now I could afford to run. I ran.

The Escort was on the far side of the road but that didn't matter because the landings in our block don't have windows.

Nobody could see me – unless they'd left a third man in the car, but they'd looked a bit casual for that. And they hadn't. I shoved the case into the back seat, started up, and drove soberly away.

For the moment, I was fireproof. I hadn't shot any coppers or raped any children, so I wasn't worth a real hunt. Just a description on the teletypes with a please-keep-a-look-out-for, and not even that for maybe an hour. But knowing Jack and Jack knowing me, the airports and docks would be specially notified; I could have trouble there. Still, for the moment I was fireproof.

I drove into the big car park at the bottom of Hampstead Heath and finished dressing out of sight of the road or houses. With fawn trousers, a green shirt, black-and-grey tweed jacket, and a brown silk tie I thought I'd lost in Brussels six months ago but found in a pocket of the suitcase, I was liable to lose my place in the Ten Best-Dressed Men List. But as long as I looked complete I didn't mind looking terrible.

The derringer and clip went on my left forearm again, spare rounds in my pocket, and then I started taking the pigskin flask apart.

I'd found it in Cyprus when the original owner had departed for Russia in – obviously – rather more of a hurry than I'd just left home. It was a lovely piece of work, but the KGB have always been the Aspreys of the espionage business. It poured whisky, of course, but when you wound the cap hard the wrong way the whole short neck came off and you could lift the shoulders of the flask right out of the leather, leaving a long inner neck down to the booze compartment at the bottom. That was the master touch; who'd think of what is, essentially, a bottle having a false top? Certainly not me; I'd only been suspicious enough to get the thing X-rayed by an industrial unit.

As there'd been nothing in it and we hadn't caught the bloke anyway, I hadn't suppressed evidence by latching on to it. Now, it was my private savings bank: the teetotal end held £200 in sterling and nearly another hundred quid in Swiss francs. I took out £75 in fivers, smoothed them as much as I could, and shoved them in my wallet. Then reassembled the flask and drove across to Paddington station. No particular, reason except that I wanted to park the suitcase and Paddington's about the one station that doesn't point to the Continent or Scandinavia.

Then I got on the phone to Willie.

'You're still with us, are you?' he asked cheerfully.

'More or less.'

'Have you heard any more from Bergen?'

'No – but I'm sort of heading in that direction myself anyway. Could you ring this number-' I read across the one Kari had given me '-and tell her I'm on my way?'

'Of course, but – why the rush?'

'I'm sort of on the run. The Ministry decided to pull the chain on me. I don't know what the charges are, and I think it's just general stroppiness about the shooting at Kingscutt, but I don't want to be tied down right now. All right?"

'Well – are you going to be able to make it?'

'I think so. I've got an idea or two. I'll try and keep in touch.'

After that, there didn't seem much more to say.

Then I rang Dave Tanner's office; I knew he checked in around noon, so I hoped he'd get my message in a few minutes.

I tried to make it simple but obscure – the man on the other end might be law-abiding or stupid or something. 'Tell Tanner that Jamie rang and it's urgent. Ask him to leave a number and I'll ring back to get it in a quarter of an hour. Okay? '

He started to argue, then realised he'd understood me, and just said, 'All right, Mr Jamie.'

I had a coffee and skimmed a couple of Sunday papers and then the buffet opened and I had a beer as well. And then it was time to try Tanner's office again. He'd left a London number for me; I rang it straight away.

'Morning, Major. What's the hurry?'

'I need to get abroad, and I don't want to put the passport boys to any bother.'

After a moment, he asked, 'Are you hot?'

'Barely warm. I don't suppose it'll even be in the papers.'

Another thoughtful hush. 'Well, if you're really not in bad trouble… I'll see what we can do. Anywhere special or just out?'

'Just across the Channel will do me. I'd prefer not France, but I'll risk it if I have to.'

'0-okay, Major. Where are you now?'

I instinctively paused, and he felt it, chuckled, and said, 'Doesn't matter. Ring me here at half past three and maybe I'll have something. But these things work better on Fridays and Saturdays.'

After that I had another beer, found an Indian restaurant a couple of streets away, and loaded up on curried beef and rice. Eating might become rare in the next twenty-four hours. Then I spent a couple of hours in a cinema learning the Real Truth about the Old West. It seems they didn't only spend all their, time shooting each other, but – this was the big news – they bled a lot too. Someday somebody's going to do the Real Truth about the chances of hitting anybody with a -44 or -55 without five minutes' aiming time first.

Or then again, maybe they won't.

I got through to Tanner again at the right time.

'You're travelling, Major. I'll meet you at the office – long as you make sure you come alone. Right?'

'Right.'

'Hate to mention it, but how are you for money – real cash?'

'I can do you fifty as a down payment,' I said carefully.

'Yes, all right. Seeing as you're an old and trusted client. See you.'

I got my suitcase out of the left-luggage and strolled across towards the taxi-rank in the middle of the station. Nearly there, I noticed one of those copying machines they stick in railway stations nowadays for no good reason I can think of except they must make a profit. I changed some money into five-pence pieces, got out the log, and copied off the last four pages. The copies went in my pocket, the log back in the case.

My car could just stay where it was; it was too complicated to start organising anybody to collect it. It was in a quiet street with the steering lock on, so… I shrugged to myself and lined up for a taxi.